


light that vanishes

by charmify



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, I will believe this until I die, Minerva McGonagall appreciation, Minerva and Pomona are best friends, and there for each other always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmify/pseuds/charmify
Summary: At some point you must stop, and the grief is there waiting.Or, Minerva McGonagall on the night of Albus Dumbledore's death.





	

The last of the Ministry delegation swept away down the spiral stairs, the door shut, and Minerva sank, slowly and heavily, into a chair. Into _his_ chair.

Her hands shook as she covered her face. What had kept her going for the past hours, she could hardly say; the memories of the night were already growing vague and disjointed. Patrolling the corridors. The battle - sending for Severus - fighting the Death Eaters - and then, pushing through the crowd at the base of the Astronomy Tower…

No. No, she would not think of that. What had happened next? Bill Weasley. Sending for Molly and Arthur. Telling Horace to inform the Ministry - she could not find it in her to do it herself. The hospital wing. And then coming _here_ , with Harry, and seeing his portrait already on the wall, and wondering with a terrible shock how it had gotten there, who had put it up…

Speaking with Harry. Discussing Hogwarts’ options with the staff. And then, worst of all, dealing with the Ministry. With Scrimgeour, who was already trying to spin a tale to tell the country so as best not to _dampen morale_. With Cornelius Fudge bobbing behind him, fretting with that awful, self-important air he had, as if he had not scorned Dumbledore in the end, as if he had not come into this castle not two years previously and worse than killed a man under her very nose, in full disdain of Dumbledore’s wishes. They offered their condolences, of course, before getting down to business.

She wasn’t sure which was worse, the condolences or the business. She had wanted desperately to hex them all. Instead she had discussed, in a clipped and steady voice, the state of the school, conditions for Dumbledore’s funeral, and her own appointment as headmistress. Somehow, she had stood straight and pretended that she did not hate every last one of them for their false sympathy, for their betrayal against Dumbledore two years ago and their twittering, insincere praise for him now. She wondered how glad Rufus Scrimgeour must be, to finally have Dumbledore out of the way.

She was shaking, not just her hands but her entire body, which felt too small, somehow, in Albus Dumbledore’s plush violet chair. It would not be hers; it would never be hers; this office had been Dumbledore’s from the moment she’d stood in this spot forty years ago, accepting her new post as Transfiguration Professor. This office meant nothing without Albus Dumbledore - for all that he had not been headmaster when she first came to Hogwarts, for all that successions of wizards had held this office for the past thousand years, everything about it was _his_ , from the collection of spindly silver instruments to the books lining the walls. The thought of changing anything about it - the thought, in short, of accepting his death - was too painful to bear.

A noise came from above her, and Minerva looked up, her face pale and tear-stained, to see Albus Dumbledore’s portrait staring down at her with a look of immeasurable sympathy. She let out a quiet gasp, and buried her face once more. _It is not him,_ she told herself fiercely. It was only a painting, no matter how uncanny the likeness. The real Albus Dumbledore was not resting peacefully behind a layer of glass, wearing unblemished violet robes and his kindest smile. She had seen the real Albus Dumbledore lying spread-eagled below the Astronomy Tower, his glasses askew, his face drawn, his skin as white as death.

Gone.

“Minerva…”

She stood up abruptly, and then regretted it; all the blood seemed to have left her, all the air gone from her lungs, and she swayed on her feet. She could not look at the portrait. She _would_ not.

“Minerva, I am sorry.”

“ _Don’t—_ “

She made an odd, jerking motion, as if wishing to snatch something up and throw it. Instead, after a long moment, she fell back into the chair, all the breath leaving her. “Why did you have to leave _tonight_ , Albus?” Her voice shook, barely more than a whisper; her throat felt as if it had been cursed shut. “If you hadn’t gone - if you’d _told_ me - “

She wasn’t sure what she was accusing him of. All she could think of was the moment when Harry had refused to tell her where he and Dumbledore had gone, and, for a split second, she had wanted to shout at him, to say that _she_ was Dumbledore’s deputy, that _she_ of all people should be trusted with his secrets, that now that he was gone they were all she had left of him. But Harry had stood there resolute, with all the loyalty to Dumbledore that she herself had ever shown, and instead of shouting Minerva had nearly burst into tears.

“I don’t know what to do,” she heard herself whispering, as though someone else was speaking. As though she were not here in this office at all, but somewhere far away - outside, perhaps, part of the night air, some dust in the wind tumbling in the wake of Fawkes’s wings. The phoenix song had long since stopped now, and she ached for it.

“Minerva, of course you do. There is no one more competent, more qualified…”

“ _Qualified?_ ” she burst out, and there was a definite note of hysteria in her voice now. She looked up, finally, at Dumbledore’s portrait, which was frowning sympathetically at her. “Yes - I suppose I am! You’d think - after so many years - I would be used to - to losing the people that I…that I…” She sucked in a sudden harsh breath and covered her mouth to muffle a sob.

Her parents. Her brother. James and Lily Potter, and too many others of her students, too many by far. _Elphinstone_. And now Albus Dumbledore, who had been her mentor and her friend for the last fifty years of her life. Gone. Dead. Her trembling fingers fumbled underneath her robes and clasped the wedding ring that hung on a chain around her neck, out of sight. Now she was, she supposed, truly alone.

“Minerva?”

The voice was not Dumbledore’s, this time, but Pomona’s, and Minerva startled, looking up to see the witch closing the door behind her. A swift glance at Dumbledore’s portrait found his eyes closed, feigning peaceful sleep. Too slowly, as if the signals from her brain were having to wade their way through a large expanse of murky water before they reached her body, she turned back to look at Pomona.

“Minerva, are you all right? Were you shouting just now?”

“Pomona - I - I didn’t hear you come in.”

“The entrance is open. You’ll need to set a new password.”

The thought of Dumbledore’s ridiculous candy passwords sent another shock of grief through Minerva, who buried her face in her hands once more. She heard, as if from a distance, Pomona approaching, circling the desk, and then felt a warm hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. As always, Pomona smelled faintly and perpetually of fresh earth, though that was buried somewhat now under the tang of blood and sweat. “There, there. Come on now, it’s all right.”

“All right?” Minerva echoed, her voice hollow. “Nothing about this is all right.” She was not certain anything would ever be all right again.

“The students are in bed,” Pomona said quietly in lieu of a direct response, her hand still rubbing between Minerva’s shoulders. Like Minerva, she bore the marks of the battle; there was a hastily-tended cut above her left eyebrow, and her cheerful, round face was wan. “For all the good it does them. We’ve got Order members, the ones who aren’t hurt, patrolling the corridors.”

“Right.” Minerva lowered her hands from her face, but stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Students - the Order - these were things she was supposed to care about. There were people she needed to protect. But nothing around her felt real. The past few hours might have happened to somebody else; she, Minerva McGonagall, had surely been sitting here since she had first heard of Albus Dumbledore’s death, unable to move or think. 

“…Minerva? Minerva!”

Minerva blinked; Pomona was snapping her fingers in front of her face. Slowly, Minerva looked up, and Pomona bent down until her concerned face was inches away, examining her eyes. “You’re in shock,” she muttered. “You need rest. I should take you down to the hospital wing - Poppy can - “

“No,” Minerva croaked, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat, shaking her head. “No. Not the hospital wing.” She could not return there, not with Bill Weasley lying ravaged in a bed, his family, perhaps, still surrounding him. She could not face him, nor any of the other injured who would fill the hospital wing tonight, nor should Poppy waste any time fussing over her when there were others to be seen to. What she had said back in the hospital wing earlier flashed through her mind again - _my fault_. If she hadn’t sent for Severus…

“You need seeing to,” Pomona insisted. “Minerva, you’ve been running around all night, taking care of everything, and all that after fighting - at least let me get Poppy - “

But Minerva was already shaking her head again. “No.” She did not want to be fussed over or examined. She didn’t know that she wanted anything, except perhaps to sleep for a very long time - but she suspected that sleep would be hard to find, and she would not like what she saw when she closed her eyes…

“Well, then.” There was an edge to Pomona’s voice; Minerva looked up to see that she’d planted her hands on her hips and adopted the stern expression usually reserved for recalcitrant students. “If you won’t go to the hospital wing, then I’m taking you down to your office, now. You’re not staying up here by yourself.”

Minerva found she didn’t have the will to argue - and in fact, the thought of her own office and rooms, small and warmed by her fire, was infinitely preferable to the large, cold space of the headmaster’s office, with Dumbledore’s portrait watching her. She was barely aware of allowing Pomona to help her to her feet, nor of being led down the staircase and through the corridors. They met no students on the way, and only one professor - Septima Vector, who looked tired and drawn but unhurt, patrolling the corridor. She stopped when she saw them, opening her mouth to speak, but Pomona shot her a quelling glance, and Minerva didn’t look at her at all.

They reached Minerva’s office some time later; how long, it was impossible to tell. Perhaps hours. Perhaps days. It was entirely possible that whole years had passed since leaving the headmaster’s office and reaching her own, years of endless stone corridors, and now she was old, so old that her bones ached and her muscles shook to hold her weight. That seemed the logical conclusion.

Pomona shut the door behind them and drew her wand; a moment later, the fire leapt up in the grate, crackling in welcome. Pomona guided Minerva to a chair, where she sat and stared vacantly at the flames. Had it been only hours ago that she’d sat here after dinner, thinking to grade papers before it was time to patrol? Could she really have been thinking of mundane things like schoolwork and lesson plans, not knowing that, in mere hours, the most dear wizard left to her would be dead? 

Something was pressed into her hands. Minerva smelled tea, and a hint of something stronger, and she drank without complaint. There was a faint scraping sound as Pomona drew up a second chair and sat down beside her. As Minerva drank, she saw Pomona wave her wand, and a moment later something warm and fresh washed over her, like a spring breeze, and her chest felt less constricted than it had a moment ago; she drew in a deep breath, the first she’d taken in ages, and felt something slide into place around her as if the world had come back into focus.

“Thank you,” she murmured after a moment, lowering her mug. 

Pomona sniffed. “Yes, well, I’m no Poppy Pomfrey, but I know a few tricks of my own.”

“You do indeed.” For the first time, Minerva looked properly at Pomona, took in the puffy redness of her eyes and the hollow set of her cheeks. “Pomona, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put this on you—“

“Nonsense.” Pomona shook her head. “You’ve been taking care of everything all night, haven’t you? Dealing with parents and the Ministry and all, and no time to even process anything. And” - her voice grew suddenly gentle - “you were closer to him than anyone, Minerva. Of course you’re in shock. Don’t you dare apologize for that.”

Minerva did not smile, but she did shoot a grateful look in Pomona’s direction before glancing back at the fire. “I just can’t believe…It doesn’t seem possible…”

“I know.” Pomona’s voice was low and morose. “I know.”

“Thank you,” Minerva said abruptly. “For what you said, back in his office. About teaching any student who wants to stay. I still don’t know - it is hard to imagine, Hogwarts open without…But you were right.”

Pomona nodded, her hands tightening on the armrests of her chair. “I don’t blame you for thinking of closing the school, Minerva. But I would think you would know that Hogwarts is more of a home to many than their own houses, and safer as well. I’m certainly not leaving this castle so long as there is even one student who wants to be here.”

“No,” Minerva whispered, thinking of fifty years living at Hogwarts, as a student and professor both. It was more her home than any other place on Earth. “Nor I.”

They said little, after that. There was little that could be said. But at some point Pomona’s hand found Minerva’s, and Minerva grasped it gratefully - Pomona knew, more than anyone, how much comfort Minerva had always taken from being touched. They sat there, with clasped hands, before the fire, until it burnt low and Minerva was, despite everything, nodding in her chair, the exhaustion too heavy to fight. And then Pomona drew her up and guided her through the hidden door to her chamber, helping her into bed. 

And then she left, and Minerva was alone in the dark of her room, the covers pulled up around her, feeling a yawning chasm inside her chest that no magic could dispel. In the morning - only a scant few hours away, now - she would have to rise and take charge. Classes would be cancelled, of course, but there was much to attend to: a governors’ meeting to schedule, a funeral to plan. Parents would come, demanding audiences, taking their children home. As headmistress, she would be in charge of all of it, and she would need to find strength enough to keep going, even with the death of Albus Dumbledore like a weight in her chest. Tomorrow, she would be Professor McGonagall, and meet what was to come with the courage of a Gryffindor.

Tonight she would sleep, and hope she did not dream of broken half-moon spectacles over a crooked, broken nose.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 2am instead of studying. it's rough and largely unedited, but it demanded to be written. i love minerva mcgonagall with all my heart and soul, so of course it follows logically that i want to write all her most painful moments. 
> 
> if you enjoyed this, maybe check out [my tumblr](http://braverytaught.tumblr.com) for more mcgonagall appreciation. thanks for reading <3
> 
> p.s.: the title is a reference to adam zagajewski's "try to praise the mutilated world," specifically the lines "praise the mutilated world / and the grey feather a thrust lost / and the gentle light that strays and vanishes / and returns." one day i will stop naming my fics after poetry, but it is not this day.


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